TWOSHOT: Final Request
by RAW-SYNTH3TICA
Summary: SLASH M17 - Dan/Ben - In a wild turn of events, Dan is alive but Ben wants more than a testimony... *EXTRA 1/2 CHAPTER ADDED*!


M-17 - SLASH - ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE. 3:10 to Yuma, In a wild turn of events, Dan is alive to testify against Ben Wade after the incident in Contention.

Pairing: {Dan Evans/Ben Wade}

TWO-SHOT:

1. Final Request

"Mister Ben Wade, it's been seven months since you've been taken here to hang…" an aged ruddy-cheeked judge announced to no one but the constant ringing behind his ears, "…but after having your handsomely paid lawyer to extend your sentence, we've run just short of patience the moment you were born."

"We cannot postpone your hanging any more than you can throw us more pleas to be given any 'dying requests'," he murmured as he read along a parchment full of the outlaw's various felonies and record of time served, "Ben Wade, you are hereby sentenced to hang no later than tomorrow…"

"But, your Honor, the only witness to the last happening died boarding Mister Wade on the three-ten, he's said so himself," the lawyer seated beside Ben said, standing and pleading along with the jury to have mercy.

"We knew you would bring this up, Yates," the judge mumbled, he lifted his spectacles to say, "The jury and I call on our witness- a mister Daniel Evans."

The courtroom hushed to a deafening stillness that made Dan wince as the squeak of the door and the presence of law officers escorted him through the entrance, but left him at the brass knobs as he eyed the filled expanse as a rancher did to his bevy. Eyes looked on at him with a poignant mixture of respect, wonder, fear and topped off mostly with pity for his lost left lower shin. Ben met his gaze full on and smirked to himself when Dan's eyelids cast down to the old tattered hat in hand. The prosecuted outlaw thought to thank god that the rancher hadn't lost taste in worthy headgear and the dark brown leather suede duster that was obviously tailored to fit like a glove. He nodded his greetings with the same half smile on his face. Dan shied away to survey another part of the audience witnessing the last trial of Ben Wade, a court attendant offered to take the knee-length duster off his shoulders, he politely shrugged out of the coat as it was being helped off. The outlaw's mouth went dry from the shiver that shot through Dan when his neck was accidentally brushed.

Snapped out of the temporary shock, Dan straightened the starched dark gray vest that wrapped around a white dress shirt. Ben smiled inside as Dan stepped closer to the stands for his input on the subject matter, he knew that the rancher would tell the truth due to his sense of righteousness that kept him on the straight and narrow. The closer he came, the more aware the outlaw was of how less of a rancher the man was in fact, he had the makings of a gentleman -pomade straightening back long brown hair, stainless clothing, groomed features, fresh shave, a near-perfect fluid gait that was possible only to aristocrats and all!- the desire that Ben thought died in Contention with it's source flared in contrast to the solemn circumstances of his supposed Final trail. Dan stared straight ahead, tattered hat in hand, and that same expression which was neither judgmental nor passive.

"Objection, your Honor!" Ben near thumped the man for making things complicated though they were for His own good, he instead put both boots up on the table and folded his arms all while rolling his eyes, "We were not aware of his survival of the shooting nor his presence in this courtroom!"

"Shut up, Yates!" the red-faced judge shouted, stabbing his gavel toward the man representing the outlaw. Ben chuckled when the older man continued, "We're not in the city where you'll be hauled off to the sheriff's office, best it be reminded that we're situated in a prison."

After a bout of calming breaths, the black-robed man waved the gavel to the empty seat to his left, "Take the stands, Mister Evans."

"Thank you, Your Honor," there was that soft, quiet and always smooth voice, Ben just about tilted himself backward and fell off his seat at the only voice a father would have. Dan made his way up the three steps and sat on an empty podium seat, the same attendant who took his coat gave him a glass of water and disappeared among the jury's small congregation.

"I have a question for the witness," the prosecutor inquired as he approached Dan, the judge mumbled a quiet 'proceed', "Mister Evans, near eight months from today, how did you happen across Mister Wade and his gang?"

The rancher thought hard all the way back, retracing the seven months and then some that passed. He answered out rightly, "My cattle, sir."

"Meaning that you were tracking them when they rustled your cattle?" the prosecutor asked in less than a heartbeat between, the whole audience shifted in their seats toward Dan, again he was pondering on a suitable answer which seemed to be more complicated than it should have been.

"They 'borrowed' my stock as a type of a shield to stop the Pinkertons' carriage," the simple answer got another chuckled out of Ben, the second brought back memories of the lengthy payout in a Bisbee saloon after a round with 'Velvet', "Got two beeves killed."

"And what time of day was this event?" the prosecuting lawyer asked with the same agitating speed.

"Mid-morn," the foreman said, "Possibly noon."

"So you watched them slaughter the Pinkertons?" the prosecutor asked, pacing and setting the stage for the last few incriminating answers. "Objection!"

"Siddown, Yates!"

"-All put down like bad dogs, sir," Dan nodded to himself. "And you've been shot by Mister Ben Wade himself?"

An accusing hand pointed to Ben who held up both hands in mock-surrender.

"Struck, not shot," Dan replied, his hand tracing the cut along his brow bone, the other covered in the right side of his hairline and a split lip barely visible in their scarred state, "A man of his outfit did plug me though."

"Would you mind showing us, Mister Evans?"

"I don't see why not," the modesty in his voice quickly evaporated along with each inch of thread covering his body. Fingers made ease of the dark gray vest, then he worked from the first button under his neck. The outlaw marveled at how the bullet scars decorated his skin, each a sunken and puckered mass of shining flesh, as if the shape of spiders dug their way into his muscles and burned their burrow like a hot brand. Dan stood, pulling the cloth apart to his shoulders and displayed to everyone the disfigurement that Charlie Prince brought on him, ladies gasped, men batted their whiskers, he buttoned up after everyone seemed well full of satisfactory an examination.

"You see there ladies and gentlemen? Four shots on this gentleman's torso," the prosecutor said, pacing to the jury and arguing his piece on the case, "Clean wounds that could have killed any man not as brave, courageous nor clever as Mister Dan Evans."

"I don't know about all that, sir, but I'm alive just the same," the former rancher said as he proceeded to clasp close his vest. From there, the trial couldn't have mattered to Ben if he were to be hung till kingdom come, the last few hours better be spent dissecting Dan glance from glance, thread of thread, answer of answer until he was left naked and moaning in Ben's much wanted vision.

To his displeasure, the judge spoke, "Do you have anything to add, Mister Wade?"

"Nothing but my written testimonies, judge," Ben patted a leather envelope containing his various handwritten statements dating from all his escapes from Yuma to his first crime.

"They've been all taken into account, Mister Wade," the judge whistled under his whiskers when the envelope was handed to him, he mumbled and flipped through the pages, taking note here and there, he reached his conclusion, "Seems that there's enough written evidence here for that'll do till we put you in a box."

"Mister Evans, you may take your leave since this court is adjourned," he pounded the gavel once and shuffled off the podium to the absolute raucous joy of the audience. All but outlaw, lawyers and the only witness gave explosive hoots and cheers for the public hanging to happen the next noon. Dan stepped down, hat in hand, he surveyed the joyous faces, and settled on a pair of sneering eyes. The same kinds that he knew Alice fantasized of during her spare moments of loneliness, and were the one and only that the former rancher remembered, shortly just before hearing the 'Hand of God' strike down Ben's own gang. Complete irony.

They passed one another, shoulder brushing shoulder, not a word passed between the two, Dan took his coat and hat then marched to the law officers' livery stable to fetch his horse. Dan breathed a sigh of much needed relief when stepping out from the courthouse, he thought for a moment after first setting eyes on Ben Wade that his legs would give out and be made a fool of himself for fainting from plain stupor. After all, Ben was the man who shot down his whole gang and willingly boarded to Yuma, a show of true courage and respect. …or maybe something more? Dan shook the thought from his head when the ridiculousness smacked him back to rationality. A tumbleweed blew clear across his boot toe and his daze was broken, he continued as he had to the stables.

Somewhere a ways behind Dan came shouts and running, "Mister Evans! Mister Evans!"

"Afternoon," he turned and greeted with a tilt of his hat to an officer.

"Afternoon," the law officer returned the greeting and quickly huffed out, "Ben Wade asks that you join him for mid-morning repast."

"Already ate," Dan said, turning on his good heel and marching straight for the stables.

"Lunch then?" the sheriff asked, still on his tail.

"I have guests to entertain," he replied.

"Supper?" the officer asked a little hopefully.

"I regretfully decline his invitation," he said, opening the stables' door and striding right in.

"Well…sir, it's his final request. He's entitled to one if he's getting the noose tomorrow, right?" the sheriff pleaded, knowing that Ben would ask for something far more complicated if this weren't successful. Dan undid the leather bridal reins that tied his buckskin to a hitching post, he swung a leg up and put both legs in the stirrups.

Off to the side stood a stable boy, no older than William, the boy gave a quick brush and cloth shine to his stirrup hung boots. Dan wanted to ignore the officer and act the pompous foreman that a thousand government dollars bought, at the same time, his good upbringing forced his conflicting wallet aside. He begrudgingly gave up after a long pause and turned in his saddle, "When does he expect me?"

* * *

><p>Noon passed eventually with the help of a nap. Dan woke in the upper middle class hotel suite, shirt un-tucked, boots both locked to one another atop a wooden footstool, and a near shapeless dime novel in hand while others lay in a neat stack on a nearby coffee table, one of the kinds William used to read. He stretched out the ache in his back, the damned horrible tightness in his muscles that Alice warned him about when he used to sit slouched for a few winks back then. Sleepily yawning, he rummaged through the vest draped on the chair back for the pocket watch, two gold needles pointed to a little past four, he slapped the half read book on the low lamp table beside him and went for a refresher. Weeks of sleeping away from his fickle wife led to his locks growing out slightly beyond his shoulders. He washed his face, slicked his hair back and changed to a crisp white button-shirt that wasn't clinging with sweat. He hiked the suspender straps back up on his shoulders and plopped his hat on.<p>

Stepping out and locking the inn's door upon his hurried exit, Dan groped the narrow hallway as his understanding of his situation took hold, both weakening his knees and tampering his sense of balance: Ben Wade, who is having his life ended tomorrow, is asking him, Dan Evans, a now rich cattle rancher, to dinner this very eve. The newly appointed foreman couldn't understand how he was being pulled two ways by himself; firstly, his heartbeats which seemed to nearly knock him off his feet as if he were balancing on a running horse - secondly, his seemingly uncontrollably blurring thoughts that tore and ripped through every topic on his mind - thirdly,…thirdly…a hope. Faith that something, anything would allow the condemned outlaw to stay a little longer, if not a week, then a day…for what? Dan didn't know.

Nerveless fingers and knees blindly felt around the blurriness of his thoughts and led his body to the staircase, where a bar attendant said upon his arrival at the last stair, "Mister Evans, your wakeup call isn't until another fifteen minutes."

"That's fine, barkeep, a late guest is a rude guest, wouldn't you say?" Dan simply smiled, he took his wallet out and laid several coins out in front of the attendant and instructed, "Please have all my belongings packed and ready for my departure this evening."

"Will you be needing your horse now, Mister Evans? We can have it saddled right away if you need," the hotel employee asked.

With much stoic enthusiasm as Dan entertained the thought of forgetting the whole supper arrangement, he forced genteel civility before brutish discourtesy, "No, thank you, but that won't be necessary. I'll be back in an hour prior to this."

"Yessir," the bartender nodded and gratefully took the coins, "Have a good evening."

"You also, barkeep," the foreman politely tipped his hat, turning toward the vast prison, which the town was built around. In a sudden afterthought, he turned back around, keeping in mind that he was brought through the railway which went only one way and circled from Yuma straight to New Mexico, he informed forgivingly as he laid more silver coins to be swept away gratefully, "Please pack a week's worth of supplies, also. I'll be riding home from here."

"No problem, sir. No problem at all," the barkeeper nodded and shuffled into the back, ignoring the thirsty folk standing at the bar, "I'll tend to it personally."

A road spread just the length of four horse carriages, several dusty general stores crowded with townsfolk as well as smaller specialty shops having their rippled glass polished. Dan took a breath and allowed a brief dark to close over the daunting road stretching far ahead, after hesitantly passing through the saloon doors behind the guest's check-in, he scolded himself for being so selfish, firstly, for nearly acting on impulse and riding out back to his ranch, secondly, for nearly betraying his new status as a rich gentleman. The least Alice wanted out of his primitive living was a clean shave ever so often. Dan admitted to himself after wiping sweat from his brow and passing from under a mercantile's shade, he liked the feel and the simplistic ritual which followed him from his sorely missed destitute previous life. Stepping up to a raised platform which was a barber, he retracted himself and strode into the parlor. The man with a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other made quick work of the dark tendrils winding down Dan's neck.

The last thing Ben deserved to take to the grave should be a pleasant memory of a face of courage, Dan thought, running a hand over his slicked back hair that currently ended evenly at his nape. The foreman instinctively pulled his right sleeve up to his elbow and whisked off another sheen of sweat over his morning's shave. As refreshing as it was to be in town and not to be known, he continued his way down the vast stretch of wooden shop marquees, anonymous, alone, and a leisure rich Yankee on an exotic vacation west in some peoples' eyes. Presumably near the hour for which he dines with a dead man, Dan passed through the last retail patio and on to a barren road that separated the town from the prison's own inner city. Much rushed through his mind, making the bright yellow-brown sands churn and chill under his boots. The sensations of his heart and stomach dropping to the ground came all too real when he first laid eyes on several officers fitting ropes to a set of gallows. Ben would either have a quick death of his skull snapping clean away from his spine or a slow, suffocating, inching march to hell by asphyxiation.

"Good evening, foreman," the marshal met his gaze from atop a podium and tilted his hat in greeting, "D'you think Ben's a craven or a kicker?"

"You want my answer, marshal?" Dan asked after a moment to collect his rattled nerves.

"As the sky is blue," the man answered, truly drawn to a response from the only man to survive a volley of bullets from all of Ben Wade's gang.

"I think he's a fighter," he said, tipping his hat in farewell and resuming into the open gates of the fort-like prison, "Marshal…"

The foreman walked beside a guard who recognized him from the congregation just hours before, and led him into a series of barred doors through a wide hallway which was filled to the brim with outlaws in the small confines on either side. At the absolute end of the hall, behind a brick wall-enclosed area was another officer lounging at a desk, a beautiful black iron piece in his hand. Dan knew by it's golden crucifix and gold-embedded etching that it was Ben's gun. 'The Hand of God' and himself meeting once again during the settling dust in wake of another friendly fire, tolling Ben Wade's death. He remembered just then that the outlaw mentioned a curse on the glorious pistol, probably meaning that the possessor of the revolver was to die untimely and possibly at will. By now the scourge embodied weapon had it's chance to take revenge at tomorrow's noon, making Ben's corpse dance or break under his ears.

"Good evening, Mister Evans," said the officer who unlocked a barred door separating the hallway from their soon to die criminal, putting the splendid gun into his holster and allowing the foreman in, the deputy nodded to another who came from behind Dan, "Deputy Grant will be on guard this evening."

"Enjoying yourself, Wade?" the officer named Grant said as he pushed the unlocked door open and allowed the cattle rancher into the cell, "He's been cuffed, so don't you worry about him getting any ideas. At least none that'll end this dinner between you and him. Ain't that right, Wade?"

Dan pulled his hat off and palmed back a few strands back onto his smooth cut, and remained standing, wondering if he should take a seat or not. While waiting in an unoccupied corner, he noticed a stack of well read books to his left, and a spittoon cum piss-pale to his right on the wooden flooring, directly in front situated under a window was a rusted spring bed with a thin mattress, the dying light of day provided some light at the end of the bed. Clean white tablecloths and napkins provided a welcome illusion to the somber mood brewing between both men.

Then the outlaw spoke in his usual sarcasm all the while sitting in plain brown pants and a shirt, "How about a little whiskey, Robinson? It'll be the last to keep me sane."

"Let 'em have it," Robinson motioned to one of the three officers, one pulled out a long wide bottle from behind the desk and pointed to it, "Of course all of it."

"If you so much as make a move on Mister Evans, you'll be in so deep, we're gonna have the whole cavalry lined up and ready to scatter your remnants all over Yuma," Robinson hissed before allowing Dan his seat in front of the outlaw.

"I prefer to die a pretty corpse, Grant," Ben smiled all too truthfully, rising on his elbows and grinning toothily.

Two less than humored officers closed and locked the two closely acquainted men into the cell and took their leave, the one known as Grant went back behind the desk and continued to observe the unfathomable gun. The foreman rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and put both hands idly at the edge of the small table, he eyed their cloth covered plates, the former gang leader reached across and pulled both their napkins off revealing twin slabs of steak and fried potatoes, except he now realized that he'd have to section up Ben's dish yet again. Dan wordlessly scooted his own plate aside and took the other's uncut meal, carefully working his fork and knife around the cartilage and fat, he neatly put the unwanted pieces into a pile on his napkin and laid the plate back under the outlaw's half smirking smile.

The criminal traded their cloth napkins, his clean linen for the one filled with his undesirables, causing the foreman to shift nervously in his seat, Dan shyly mumbled a quiet, "Thank you…"

Allowing time for the foreman to tuck his clean napkin onto his lap, Ben readied his fork and took a bite, "You look well."

"As do you," the gentleman said, keeping his eyes trained on the steak and a hand on both fork and knife.

"Do you drink, Dan?" the criminal asked, but easily saw the effect as he reached for the whiskey bottle, uncorking and pouring the drink into two tin coffee cups.

"Like an outlaw," Dan answered in his own quiet manner, taking a few sips and feeling it trickle a hot trail down to his stomach like a kick in the guts. Much to his displeasure, he coughed restfully at the pungent fumes rising, and stinging his upper mouth and throat as it left a tightening burned memory of it's path.

"Oh, Charlie?" Ben chuckled, catching a nearly misread air of hostility, "He did know how to carve a fancy desert meal from coyote. Viscus, gizzards and all."

Chastening himself, the foreman dug his fidgeting hands and fingernails into the table edge's splintering wood, a nudge to his right shin brought him back to the rickety supper table and his untouched meal, "Don't hold a grudge, you silly ninny. It'll spoil the mood."

"It's not everyday I come back from the dead to testify to my own murder," he huffed in return, downing the whole cup of whiskey and having it quickly refilled.

"I did kill him, didn't I?" the incarcerated man smiled as he took a few gulps and a big chew of steak.

"To save the invalid the trouble of limping after his killer?" the visitor murmured through his stiffly frowning lips, he put down his eating utensils and took another long swallow from the tin cup, "Some charity, Wade."

Ben hardly had to move his finger, heck, even not at all to bring out the wild brute in the foreman. He could see right past the fancy clothing, the pomade, the spicy rosewater added to his aftershave and starch, beyond the government riches and froufrou manners was the ignorant and sometimes naive smalltime rancher with mouths to feed and less of himself to think about. The formerly penniless cowpoke of a doting and loving husband who bravely swigged nearly three coffee cups of dry whiskey was the one he was dining with this evening, he missed this obverse of Dan, only having had a glance at this gold-buried persona months ago as he was held for hours at gunpoint.

God did that pair of fired up green eyes turn him on when he riled the rancher up, especially if he had a loaded barrel pointed at him, "I thought for sure Charlie put you away back in Contention."

"The preacher knew his saints. The doctor knew his medicine and I knew my piety," the foreman nonchalantly remarked, finally calming himself enough to pick up his misplaced utensils and slowly, but neatly carve into the neglected meat, "Thank whichever seemed to pray, treat or believe the hardest."

"I'm thanking the doc, mind you," the outlaw smiled, then added after some time hearing a reasonably dull knife clink against the tin plate, "How're Alice and your boys?"

"Mark's in school, Will misses you, and Alice's seven months along," Dan answered without thought, concentrating hard on not sinking into the delightfully dull haze slowly eating his senses from his legs up, yet strangely enough; he was completely and fully aware of his surroundings even if his body lagged two or twenty steps behind his intended reflexes.

"So the sailor's blue-eyed daughter directs those lonely lookers your way?" the cuffed host asked, a slight hinting hope in his low voice.

"And she sees a man once brave enough to take gang leader Ben Wade to the three-ten," the cattle ranch boss said candidly as he emptied his and the outlaw's tin cup, adding inevitably to his slowly wandering emotions.

The thought of Alice falling in love too easily with Ben Wade devastated him, and simply his months under his wife's fascinated scrutiny broke his heart, because she was no longer stupefied by the handsome Union veteran who gave her all; his body, his trust, his will, his lower left shin. Everything but intentional grief, he added after the one-sided uncomfortable silence stretched longer than anticipated, "She see's the fame-painted legend on me."

"It's a shame, Dan, that we're too much the same of a bad thing," the then-gang leader half somberly supposed, tipping the last contents of whiskey into his guest's cup, he added after assuming that Dan was refractory enough to not argue against forthright opinions, "You've cheated a greedy devil and became his embodiment of perfection."

" 'For better, for worse, 'til death do us part' is more our state of position," the guest whispered, his lips catching in a partially opened pout, the center of his lips forming an ever so slight 'o', which passed his mouth often during deep thought. Dan continued unawares after taking a tiny bite out of his cooling platter, "While you'd have squandered your faith and riches, I hope that I some day run out of money I can't spend."

"A rancher your caliber shouldn't be staring into the gift horse's mouth. And who is the worst at playing saint than someone who is a train wreck playing the saint?" Ben leaned across the table, his expression melting from mildly amused to one promising certain entertainment.

"I doubt wary blessings," the gentleman strained through his rising temper, he picked at the steak and attempted once more to chip at the now seemingly unappetizing cooked flesh, after calming himself under the outlaw's watch, he said, "My selfishness extends as far as a father has for the wellness of his children."

"Count them for my pleasure, Dan," Ben nodded, taking several large bites but never allowing his eyes to stray from his guest.

"The location of my cot," the foreman answered, his fork scooping up a bit of potatoes.

The incarcerated man continued to consume his last meal, having both elbows on the table and cuffs clinking against the tin plate and empty cup, "Jesus, Dan, a thousand dollars and some coulda bought you more than a sheet."

"I moved into the barn," Dan replied, his fork and knife working away at the still large discouraging steak, unconsciously allowing his knife to cut smaller and smaller pieces.

"Dan, you can't find love in the Barn," the outlaw scooted back on his wooden chair, first to take in why his guest might have wanted to move into the barn, then to see if the foreman gave away in manner of his expression. So far, what he was told was true.

"Won't I?" the gentleman kept right on politely shearing away until he had thin strips that could pass as jerky, he trained his eyes down at his hands working pointlessly at the now cold slab of meat, he answered his own question, "I don't."

The cynical deadpan alerted the outlaw that he was once again on deadly ground, this was getting fun, "Your boys taken into town to have city schooling?"

"Will you just let me eat?" Dan exhaled as his hand holding the knife shook.

The sharp features of his face hardened, his eyes reverted to Ben's chest, but simply forced his fingers and palm to go limp and allow the utensil to tumble off the table. Questions both personal and harmless seemed to add to the outlaw's sense of power, which was trivial as it was damaging, his ability to uncover the beast and the martyr in a man. Not this man, no, he was also a loyal father and a veteran, summing how he was so easily controlled and manipulated by the entanglement taking root post-enlistment. As for Charlie, that young man was all bad blood with not a single chance of salvation; either he pissed off someone up stairs or he was the son of the devil himself. Simply, the blonde hellhound was commanded and possessed by Ben Wade, 'til death indeed did them part.

"You have a new prosthetic I see," Ben smiled, sliding his hands off the table and settling them on his lap, "Your gait is smoother. Graceful."

"As if you've only strained a muscle," he continued, then added a moment later, "It suits you, Dan."

"Please shut up and let me finish my supper, Mister Wade," Dan huffed, his cheeks burning in both pink shades of anger and agitation.

Confusion swarmed like a thick fog of locusts, his patience wore thin, he closed his eyes and leaned back the same way the outlaw was currently postured. The telltale light ring of chain signaled to the gentleman that his host enjoyed the sight of him disturbed, he knew by the rhythmic grind of steel link on steel that Ben was probably playing with a growing lump in his pants. The sounds raised no word or attention from their guard. As distasteful as it was to have men fawn over his looks, the foreman usually knew it was normal for a man that cannot control his hands in the face of death. Namely his experience in the war; some preferred whores, some had families, some favored men.

He reflected on his curiosity about whores, then on men, but settled fixatedly on his wife pregnant with William. The man marked to die tomorrow most likely acted on instinct as many did when confronted with the vary real possibility that their last breath may be the next one they take. The setting sun's orange light reached into the dark cell through the barred window, the illumination brushed Dan's closed lids, but he refused his lids to open and slam the image of Ben back into his foggy mind. One last moment enveloped in his sight wrapped in golden wisps bleeding to bright violets where he presumed his eyebrows were, he reached for the tin cup and gulped until his throat constricted like a trail of red pinpricks stabbing down his lungs. He reached down into his pants pocket and thumbed the round silver chain-linked watch, blinking once, his eyes made a thin smile out of the unlit spaces, and two cuffed arms crossed on a chest. His eyes rolled down to the ticking in his lap and read ten to five.

The foreman stood, pocketing his timepiece and wiping his mouth of beef grease, a little too clumsily for his own taste, "Thank you for dinner."

"Leaving so soon? After all we've been through?" Ben grinned mischievously out of self-satisfaction.

"A booming cattle ranch can't run itself," the guest said simply, he limped mid-stride and caught himself on the steel-barred door.

The outlaw stood, arms folded about his torso, trapping the drunken former Union soldier between the unguarded door and himself, not by any means beside his presence before the foreman, he bent down a palm's width to the flushed ear and whispered enough to hear, "I've enjoyed your visit and hope to see you soon…"

Dan dared not look up and faint having his last memory of the man's blue eyes staring down at him, he instead gripped his hands down to his sides and held on for dear life to the bars surrounding them both, hell be damned any man caught on his ass under Ben Wade, "Forgive me if I don't feel the same way, Mister Wade."

"Ben," the walking dead man said, his voice sounding a little distant.

"Pardon?" the foreman asked, finally gaining strength to stand on his wobbling legs.

"I assumed by now that you'd call me by my first name," the cuffed man said, thankfully keeping his distance.

Straightening his skewed trousers and suspenders, Dan reached through the bars, noticing a finally non-present guard to retrieve his hat from a nearby table. Knowing now that their paths twining came to an end, he pushed the body back at arm's length and spoke clinically, "Good bye, Ben."

"One more thing before you leave…" Ben shot one arm out at the door, the foreman hesitantly paused, turning to meet the steely iris' that showed a hint of pleading, the cuffed wrist let go of the bar and reached the space halfway between them, "Let us part as friends."

His own indecisive green eyes stared at the dark silhouette surrounded by blinding orange, he took the warm palm in his own and grasped, they firmly held one another, their fingers wrapping around the other's hand. Ironically, the gentleman felt dissatisfied with their simple parting and found himself wishing they were both stranded again; enemies and traitors on all sides, trigger fingers itching like the smite and barrels blazing like a Gatling, time wasting away while they were riding like hell on a clock, hours passing faster than seconds, and their eyes meeting coincidentally a touch too long for Dan's personal comfort.

His daze broke as a harsh tug on his hand forced their lips together, before he could tear his face away, Ben put both hands on the side of his jawbones and kept them at level. He struggled all he could, his arms tearing at the vice-like wrists and sleeves, legs kicking as a still living man would if were his neck tied to the gallows. Insistent teeth and tongue harsh as whiskey melded and bit hard at his lips, then slipped inside past his teeth before a shouted swear could escape. Dan's teeth ground down weakly on the tongue as it reached and wrapped round his, he ripped his head back just disconnecting their lips a touch, Ben reached lower within that time and slid his palms and fingers to cradle his neck, cupping below his jawbones and tilting the foreman's face at a slight angle, enough which allowed the outlaw to control the depth which their tongues touched, and the contact between their lips and teeth. He effortlessly stole Dan's breath and swallowed almost each frantic gasp of air that the military veteran attempted to gulp, he suffocated the younger man. Deeper and deeper the combination of overexertion, nearly four cups of whiskey, his lips and the heavy chain slowly pushing themselves into the muscular neck. He chased the shy tongue with his, catching it cornered every once in a while and swallowed his own saliva mixing with Dan's blood, he fed hard on the soft lips that split and bruised from their careless teeth and his sharp discoloring caresses.

The foreman fell over a pile of books and hung limply against the outlaw, he ripped at the sleeves and shoved with all his might against the chest. His breath ebbed away, slowly, the scruffy mustache and beard twitching as it's mouth licked away at his burning and bruised lips. He willed his limbs to give all they had before he died from a smothering kiss, a thin sheen of sweat covered both their forms, Dan blinked and tried to focus on the painted haze that was the outlaw. He saw nothing but an orange backlit darkness overshadowing him, a specter wrenching the life out of him. Ben marveled at the partly dazed green eyes, the lids slowly blinking but not opening all the way as they should have, sensing that Dan was weak enough, he swept his tongue lazily throughout the inside and lapped deliberately at the pulsating tongue, he pushed the collapsed body back against the wall, and grabbed the slim hips to keep the foreman upright. He fed gently, resorting to leaving soft touches on the gentleman's lower lip and his jawbone. The veteran's breathing stopped, Ben chuckled and continued to leave soft kisses over the closed eyelids, over the eyelashes, atop the smooth forehead, then trailing back to his blood-salted lips.

Hearing steps approach, the outlaw tucked his head atop the unresponsive neck and left slight caresses for another taste, he licked his saliva off and said to the officer as he appeared a moment later, "You should take him, Grant…"

"I think he's dead of a broken heart…" the cuffed man smirked, handing off the body to the officers who soon filed in.

"You killed him, you sonnova Bitch!" a lawman shouted, a fist from the crowd cracked against Ben's chin, then another into the stomach left him wheezing and hunched.

"Get Mister Evans to the infirmary!" a shout came from the mob, hands pushed the outlaw around each fist aimed first to his rib, then his cheek, and a revolver's iron-rimmed butt jammed into the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. A trail of red trickled down his forehead, then around the inner corners of his eyes, the wet warmth then dribbled over his chin and splattered on the floor.

"In all fairness, I didn't kill him," Ben smiled mechanically, his open mouth bubbling crimson lines steadily to the boards under them, he rocked on his heels forward and back. Blue eyes counted at least seven officers knit in a tight circle about his kneeled form, he spat a sour blood clot aside and threaded a bent pin into his stained shirt, he said, "I freed him."

"I don't care what the judge said, you're hanging tonight!" The palm which gripped his shoulder ensured Ben's release also.

His left hand broke free from the unlocked cuff, wrapping the still dangling chain around his right hand, he reached into the crowd and slammed his metal-linked fist into a kidney. The body fell back as the outlaw sucked the dripping blood back into his nose, sensing movement, he ducked a blow from behind and grabbed a wooden chair and threw it with all his might into a peacekeeper who whipped out a gun. The seat shattered on impact into splinters and firewood, taking further advantage of hands shielding their eyes, the nearly free man made a grab for two holstered guns and the gleam of ringed keys about a hip. Robinson furiously rubbed his eyes and blindly took aim at the movement scuffling around in the dark behind his arm, he shot ahead, left, then lashed right, two missed and one earned a pained moan.

Ben grabbed the wrist and shoved it down to the shooter's thigh as he pulled the trigger. A loud vibrating crack sounding, the officer dropped down on his ass and howled, clutching the wounded thigh. The outlaw quietly stole out the cell, closing and locking the door, he tsked and reached behind the desk only to pull an empty holster out. He cursed for the missing pistol as his hand plucked off the twisted pin to unlock his right cuff, following the lamp-lit hall down to the end, and blew out the flame of he last two oil lamps near the exit.

The outlaw coughed, then rattled the door with the gun's grip until a guard appeared, "Hey, you! You better help us; Ben Wade's causing a ruckus in the barracks and he ain't going down!"

The peacekeeper franticly opened the two outer locks, slipping the padlocks off as Ben grabbed him by the scruff and hammered the man behind the neck once. He dragged the body in and quickly stripped and shimmied into the stolen pair of khaki trousers, a dark printed long sleeve, a pair of long riding boots and a black leather vest. He pulled the padlocks off from the outside and wrapped a chain which fixed both the door and the wall together, keeping intruders out of the prison block. While following his memory, he took a hall leading left that was nothing but a sand-brick wall and doors until a flight of stairs leading down seemed more interesting than the one leading up. He pushed open the door only to be met with a barely missed bullet to the head under one lone dully lit lamp, he flinched as another nicked his arm.

"You just about fucking killed me!" a truly pissed growl drawled, a telltale half shuffle step brought the voice's owner to the oil lamp's dim light. Dan took a wide stance as the outlaw sheepishly put up his arms, now sure that the veteran literally stood in his way to escape.

"Good morning, beautiful," he laughed and stepped to advance on a still tipsy rancher, but quickly withdrew the foot on the ground when the foreman squeezed off a round, narrowly missing the boot tip, "Put that down before you raise some real hell."

"What were you trying to prove by damned near sucking the soul out of me?" the intoxicated man shouted, his eyes blinking profusely away the mental cobwebs. The freed gang leader raised both yielding arms in the air at gunpoint, the barrel connected to a shaky right wrist. The view of Dan in a sweat-clinging shirt, his eyes ablaze by green fire, his lips still swollen red, tooth-scraped and his voice gruff from earlier misuse.

"You're welcome," Ben said and evaded the bullets as they followed him into a locked corridor, he poked his head out and chuckled breathily, "Dan…if you wanted another kiss, just ask!"

Dan squeezed the trigger at the other face's appearance, an empty click informed them both the gun held was harmless, he threw the useless pistol aside and growled, "That was a shitty attempt on my life!"

"I call it 'impulse'," the outlaw grinned, his own split lips burning deliciously unhindered as the foreman hurled a right fist into his jaw.

Both forms crashed to the floor, Dan planted both knees atop the other's arms and pounded again before the trapped limbs wrapped around his legs and flung him aside. They scrambled to their knees and wrestled one another, trying to throw the other off balance and back to the floorboards. Wild eyed, wheezing, muscles weakening, the former rancher refused to be at Ben Wade's mercy. Their moment in Contention frayed to a distant memory as his right knee planted firmly in place, he strained his left leg folded and stabbed straight at the ribs, receiving a grunt and the second body buckling and falling backward. Dan reached for both guns, yanking one out as the other's six bullet-housed cylinder came loose and skidded off to the side, he fought for control as the outlaw's hands pushed the hollowed iron away from having them pointed at his body. He groaned as the gun was yanked out of his grasp, the dull light and his fuzzed vision providing a standing silhouette and falling slivers which bounced into shadow.

His stumbled to his feet and dove for the gun that was previously unholstered and reached the other's hand. Fingers angrily lacing through one another as his left kept attempting to wrench the piece away, Ben slammed Dan's body against the nearest wall and threw their entwined hands at the door's protective barring. Their hands begrudgingly slackened and dropped the gun outside of the locked exit, they desperately thrashed one another on every accessible surface, rolling and legs locking until the former Union soldier relented, the gang leader smiled down on the sweat laden body, breathing greatly disturbing the dust coated chest and suspenders hiked down on quivering shoulders, dark brown hair streaming and sticking alongside absently drifting green eyes. The foreman sucked air through his gritted teeth, the heavy body hindering his breathing to hasten weakly, he wheezed before knocking their foreheads together and rolled from under the body.

He searched about the viewless ground for a functioning gun, crawling on his sore elbows and strength sapped hands. Lightheaded and eyes blurring flashing doubles of their surroundings, he squinted lower and lower, he glimpsed a brief metallic flash just above him on the wooden cot. Heavy as lead right hand scratched forward to the blanket tangled around the object, he flung his arm up but grasped the thin coverlet and missed the pistol. He knew by now that he was lucky to be alive, barely moving and still drunk in the least. Dan's cloudy judgment and dull senses picked up an airy laugh and steps drawing near. He scraped for the last bit of brute will hidden somewhere as did his stiff fingers for the evasive pistol, feeling solidity, he made a grab and twisted his body around for a clear shot.

A scuffle made him turn a second too late, Ben had a left hand fixed firmly on his right shoulder and thumb hooking painfully under his collarbone, lifting the exhausted body. Dan shouted, pulling the trigger before remembering how he fired off all six rounds, then instead hammering the empty pistol to connect to the outlaw's temple only being interrupted by a clenched hand beating into his abdomen and ribs. He flexed his bent right hand and missed the man's forehead and grazed his arm. The outlaw, hand on shoulder, threw the drunken fighter onto a table and continued to darken the bruises forming under the shirt, the gun's handle smacked into the side of his head, making his ears ring and his hand to loosen from the shoulder.

The foreman jostled the stunned body aside, ignoring his burning limbs and throbbing dark patch around his midsection, he swallowed the thick air and dropped to his knees in the dark. Unfocused eyes and sweaty palms searched the wood, the dull sounds of scattering metal cylinders tinkled under his hands. He grabbed a handful and numbly threw the pieces into the gaping black barrel, he licked his dry lips as boot spurs leisurely blended in with the scattered bullet's musical jangling. He slid the sixth bullet in, slapped the hex-fitted cylinder and rolled on his back, right hand and trigger finger aimed at Ben's smug form.

Dan gulped again, his throat aching as he hoarsely mumbled, "I'll see to it that you're put back behind bars, so help me, Wade."

"Dan, all I have to do is say the word and I'm a free man," the half sober man said in his honest tone, the foreman swallowed his thoughts of possibly turning Ben in, he blinked sweat, grit and blood from his eyes. When he opened them, the gun was trained to his throat and his own finger still firmly on the trigger, the outlaw held both slim wrists before the veteran's face and solemnly mumbled, "If you want to shoot someone so bad, then why not yourself?"

Dan blinked up at the form crouched over his own, his body spiritually depleted and thoughts reeling. '…why not yourself?' Why not? He loved his wife. Alice left him for a seven month old myth. He loved his sons. His boys had no further use for him since they had privileges allowed to rich folk. He had a ranch to oversee. His family owned a flourishing business in cattle dealing. He was still fit as a spring chicken. His story ended here, staring past a cold barrel into the finally visible azure iris'.

He laughed huffily, "…yeah, why not?"

Ben admired the feistiness, the challenge but knew he had to gain the upper hand or face the firing squad before he could fail his escape, and Dan was making it a whole some other kind of free-for-all. Choosing between this refreshing bout and the gallows, he reasoned that he'd rather not lose his neck for nothing, that in mind; he regretted putting his hands on that finally serene face. The foreman's head thudded against the squeaking floorboards from the punch aimed at his jaw. Wiping his sweaty bloody hands, the outlaw rose and backed away to a wall, his eyes scanning the heaving body splayed on the infirmary's ground. He holstered the loaded gun and went to work on filling a bag with medical and remedial supplies.

He ripped out cupboards containing vials and tied it within a bolt of oilskin sitting aside a corner. He folded and tightly rolled a woolen blanket and strung the bundle alongside the oilcloth. Ben reached for the lamp and adjusted it's dial, flooding the entire room in bright amber, including the outspread former rancher. He stepped over the knocked out torso and unlocked the infirmary's exit, his hands pushed the door open, his gaze unwillingly pulled from the long lit brick tunnel out and back to Dan's deeply respiring body. Slightly tanned eyelids showed roving eyes beneath, possibly in dream, lips parted, shivering, dark hair scattered over his cheeks and fanned around his ears; battle swollen knuckles and long calloused fingers lay listlessly near pinched hips.

Regret stung hard and sharply at Ben, he laid the bundle down near the door, and set the lamp on a stool, he brushed traces of red away from the lips with his thumb and said, "Why do you have to be so fucking beautiful?"

Mind made up, he hauled the body up into his arms without strain and threw the supplies over his shoulder, continuing through the prison's underground passage to where he presumed was 'the hell out of this shit hole'. The somber prison warren had a good acre of walkway hidden in the midst of the fort's vast walls, flickering yellowed lamps giving off an opaque oily smell as Ben treaded through in a jog. A shot blew wall fragments over his head, he looked back and spotted in the faint light Deputy Grant, the cursed pistol in hand and dashing after. The outlaw reached the halfway point and tossed the lit oil lamp over his shoulder, hearing a muttered 'shit!' behind him. Deputy Grant switched the gun from his burned right to his left and aimed, his scathing eyes watering more as he let loose the last five rounds.

More officers charged into the tightly confined pathway, a man shouted, "Alright, men! Take aim and shoot until something drops dead."

Ben froze and fell automatically to his knees, and shielded Dan from the ongoing volley, the riot focused on a single form huddled in shadow which soon danced to the chorus of booms going off like the fourth of July. The figure drooped forward, unmoving, the unmistakable flow of blood mingled with the uneasy crowd coughing through the gunpowder smoke.

All eyes strained in the dark, darting around and around the lumped silhouette, until one officer exclaimed, "It's Grant!"

"Told ya the gun was cursed!" Ben shouted, taking the lamp at the end of the tunnel and hurling it to the crowd as far as he could, causing the object to explode into flame.

He slipped through the door and found he was in the stables. The outlaw felt a dreaded wet warmth under his right arm and stomach, color drained from his face as he set Dan on a hay bale, first sticking his left hand between his clothes and searching for the wound. He found the first which only opened his skin on his right elbow, otherwise nothing seemed to be the problem…unless…Unless…! Ben ripped the crimson splattered shirt open and fetched another lamp from an unoccupied table, stubbing his boot every step of the way.

Dan had one each a stray puncture in his left thigh and in his right shoulder, and a ghastly collection of shattered ricochet shards across the right of his ribs leading like fire ants to his hipbone. He knew worrying now would only get them both killed so he whistled one sharp note, instantly a whinny and drumming creak of metal on wood told him he had a good chance not looking death in the face tonight. He was met with a black muzzle nudging his shoulder, the outlaw had no time for greetings so he tossed two saddle blankets on the horse's back and put the bloodied foreman on top. Ben fixed reins and a bit onto the horse and tied it into one knot around the stallion's neck, just as he put a leg into the stirrup to mount, the closed door lurched backward, muffled voices shouting threats behind it. He swatted the rump and darted over a stable door as the horse trotted out the prison's open livery gate. He crouched low into the straw bedding of the empty stall and cocked his revolver through a knee-high crevice, aimed at any possible too close targets.

The officers broke through the door by shooting it's hinges off, they swarmed out and teemed on the other side of the stall he was situated in, they stood around before someone hollered, "Here! He ran over here!"

Ben assumed the peacemakers were all drunk and sick in the head to believe he wasn't in an obvious place, until twin barrels of a shotgun touched his forehead. A voice calmly said, "Get up."

The outlaw uneasily complied, rising and hoping that someone in town stopped a black horse transporting an injured veteran, the other man stepped back and instructed, "Come out, easy-like."

Ben climbed over the raised fence and came face to face with s boy no older than sixteen, hat pushed down low and both hands aiming the shotgun at the unarmed outlaw, the kid said, "Went to Dodge City like you said…"

"…made one devil of a cardsharp outta me," the shadowed visor lifted and revealed a set of intelligent but large feral blue eyes, expressive lips quirked slightly as the kid handed the outlaw a single holster lined full with bullets, "And you have knack for leaving shit behind."

"William," Ben said, giving a sidelong glance as he smiled, fitting the loose holster around his waist, thinking over and over how he could easily take Dan's son under his wing, and take him back to Dodge City a professional triple-crossing, sharp tongued, greed-feeding deadeye. They could easily be godfather and godson.

"That's my scholastic name, Ben," the Evans boy smiled, hands lowering the gun.

Ben knew it was too good to be true to name a someone nearly as infamous as he, cheating his way steadily up the gambling ladder, smooth talking his way out of bad deals, and surprisingly the notorious hot-hand had a calling card: giving all the money away, "Wild Willy Bettor."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Ben Wade. Don't wear it out," William hauled the pump action over his left shoulder and shook with his right, then marched to a stable after their brief show of camaraderie, "Pa thinks I'm in law school studying to become a stupid flatfoot like these fools around here."

"Does he?" the outlaw pulled a long legged draft stallion from the dark, and saddled the bulking body with two leathers to extend the girth buckles with a wide five-braided leather strap, the boy buckled and fastened the simple breast just below the neck and to the girth, "You should get back to school before you take over my cell."

"Sometimes I do, other times I don't," William said indifferently, he tied the bundle of supplies to the back of the saddle seat and fitted a bridal to the draft, he handed both halters to the outlaw and said, "If I catch you in my line of fire again, I'll have to take you in. Dead or alive. Is that clear, Ben Wade?"

"Spoken like an Evans in particular," Ben said, his foot finding the stirrup and the other leg swung him up. Both turned to a ruckus exploding outside the stables, the officers were advancing loaded, pissed and all.

"Go out that door behind you and don't look back," William buckled his shotgun into a long sheath onto the saddle at Ben's raised shin, the boy stepped away to allow the horse way, he shouted, "Leave!"

"I trust you know what this means for you if they find out I didn't escape by accident," the outlaw's amused smirk became visible in the dim barn light.

"I can manage a beating and a night in county, thank you," Dan's son stood his ground under the hulking stallion and reached behind to a package of shotgun shells, he handed them off.

"Why?" Ben asked, still not caring that he was burning time and moreover interested in nearing the words to what made the Evans family tick.

"I'm not the type to kill what I can't eat," William answered unfazed and sure, he added, "Just like my pa…"

"The saint wins again," the rider huffed and leaned back into the saddle, finding that the Evans' were simply just a good family, he hoped at the back of his mind that there was a secret, either dark or somber, uneasily met with a swift end.

"For God's sakes, move! You stupid bastard!" they worked the sleepy horse slowly to a canter toward the gate opening to the cooling desert and alit town.

He glanced back to see William pulling the tall wooden doors shut, finally breaking him off seven months of imprisonment. Freedom, while short-lived, breathed meaning and vigor back into his bones as soon as he remembered Dan, who was possibly wandering the night with a horse and direly injured. Ben allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, spotting the dull flickering oil lantern giving off the same sickly gamboge tinge left by low settings, a piano and fiddle jig floated by as a wispy breeze would, then faded behind into the prison's chaos. He lunged the mount forward and kept his pace, the small connection of constellations thudding closer, soon well in the shadow between the lined establishments, he continued on in search of his horse, an uneasy neigh screamed from all sides as he stopped right in the center of town and whistled.

Nothing, a few howls and a loud 'shut up' answered his call. Off in the distance came a rider who then passed on by, a horse whinnied soon after. The freed man squinted about in the darkness surrounded by black mountains and lamplights splashing the ground in bright tiles of feeble yellow. He dismounted and led the predominating horse through the town's one of many streets. He whistled and waited one more time before assuming that his trusty steed took Dan elsewhere. Tied to a hitchpost, the black horse tossed it's head about and huffed uneasily as Ben neared, putting the draft mount next to it, he then read the sign above a starlit marquee which his horse led him: Physician Ross Desmond MD.

The outlaw dusted his pants and swiped back his hair, he straightened the vest and pushed open the physician's office door. The whitewashed room glared the ever present glow cast from hanging oil lanterns and blown glass oil lamps, a long desk stacked modestly with books and paper sat to the left of the entrance behind a vast window, behind that was a curtain and a rolling table for the surgical operation tools. Ben pushed the once white curtain away, revealing another drape stained dark with dried blood and hues of yellowed vomit. Occupying one of the three rickety narrow wooden post beds lay Dan under a mosquito net, left hand splayed over his naked bandaged chest, right dangling offside, legs hidden under a gray blanket. The foreman's breathing came in ragged whiffs. Ben caught sight of a balding bespeckled man shuffling about, a bloody metal dish and spoon-pointed pincers in hand.

"How is he, doc?" the freed man asked.

"Friend or family?" the other murmured without looking up or acknowledging a client's presence.

"Neither. Turnkey," he answered, leaning against the doorframe.

"That's not a good enough answer…" the older man said, writing up a current bill for his patient, "I'll have to keep John Doe until he can stand on his own. I barely had the marshal carry him in after he scared half the town into lines in front of the outhouses. He riled a good amount of publicity."

"Partner," Ben said, the doctor's eyes shot up at him, many sorts of taboo questions forming about behind those wise specs, he quirked an eyebrow in explanation, "I don't know what you're thinking, doc, but I ain't much that committed to near-dead men."

"No good believer in Christ is," the physician simply muttered, sure hand pulling out an anatomical chart, "He's still strong, I'd give him nine…maybe two weeks recovery without catching the sickness."

"Are his wounds alright?" the outlaw nodded to the bedridden man.

"I've taken the liberty of cleaning out the lead in his wounds, dressing his injuries, giving him a sip of catholicon, and also an exceptionally potent opium-based sedative," the elderly doctor informed. Ben stepped over to the unresponsive man laying in bed, the other continued, "A full week's rest'll put 'em right."

"Dan, can you hear me?" the outlaw whispered, parting the mosquito net and watching the face for signs of understanding. Dan's eyes fluttered a fraction open for a moment before his lips twitched, Ben swore he heard something, he leaned closer until four fingers parted the two's near touching faces, "What?"

The injured foreman shot up, wrapping a left arm about the outlaw's neck and right smashing knuckles against the unprotected ribcage. The freed criminal knew this wasn't the time, still he couldn't help but admire Dan's unhindered strength and agility as his arms bear hugged the bandaged waist, he smiled wolfishly against the hot sleek skin as the mouth above shouted, "You son of a Bitch!"

"Steady. Steady. Hold 'em steady," the doctor instructed, helping Ben in forcing the thrashing body to fold forward slightly. Suddenly limply hanging, the outlaw peeked over the gauzed heaving shoulders to an empty needle withdrawing from under the trousers, "I think he'll recover in a week to eleven days."

"Doc, we'll need some of that catholicon and tranquilizer," the freed man grinned as he stood with the still spirited body held within his arms, dazedly rolling green eyes raking about the physician's office, then close mostly in drug-induced nausea and relaxation. Dan's breath caught in his throat as his face was pulled from the unwilling numbness in his neck and muscles, eyes forced to take in the spinning bright sepia room, then to two figures who continued their conversation in spite of his half self-analyzing consciousness:

"A sick man needs his rest…He still needs to be sedated…" echoed to his left.

"If I wait here any longer, we'll need caskets…Your advice, doc? …I'll take to it kindly…" said to his right.

"Clean his wounds, dress them every so often before his punctures fester…He'll need dry shelter, clean water, plenty of heat and blankets. Whiskey is optional…" answered to his left, "And those bruises…I've got just the thing…"

Dan batted the white haze sharpening and smudging colors and hues until they melted into what looked like a noon sky in the middle of a forest fire -heavens stained a sleepy amber, gray clouds like weak ink blots, dark green shadows, and the bright orange white of the sun. His focus rushed back to a scene of the medical doctor, whom he supposed patched him back up, an arm entering to the left of his vision and pushing a syringe into a looming hatted shadow just above his face to his right. He swore he squinted because a pair of blaring shadowed sapphires met his and Smiled. Smiled. They smiled the clearest blue in all his glaring yellowed vision. A genuinely warm smile. A handsome careless twist of the usually stern smirking lips. He wished he could work the muscles in his cheeks to return the greeting, he felt only the weight of his jaws drop slightly at the effort, then a huff suspiring shakily.

The needle withdrew with a dark orange substance, almost black and full as a satisfied mosquito, the sizable bruise noticeably decreased in mass and color on the outlaw's grinning face, then the elder's voice said, "And you're done."

"That'll be twelve even," the doctor said. Dan felt a hand go down into the hip of his pants, he strained his nerveless hands which felt as if he were swimming to swat the paw-like arm away, but earned a laugh in it's amusingly inferior efforts. Ben fished out a pouch of coins and laid it on the desk, the physician looked both men up and down, and set to work giving them supplies in a separate burlap and canvas saddlebag, along with extra gauze to both cushion the glass and also to have it's own purposes.

The outlaw quickly shouldered the saddlebag and nodded, "Thanks, doc."

"Always glad to help, especially the direly needy," the doctor said as they stepped out the door, while the outlaw sat Dan atop the noticeably tall draft mount, a dappled red and white Clydesdale to be exact. Ben lowered the large milk pail of a head down into a long manger of water, he turned back to the physician who stood at the office's porch.

"One more thing:-" he said, "Do you know where Daniel Evans might be accommodating? His punctuality might be failing him tonight."

"Last I heard, he was staying at the Silver Dollar Lodge, it's an inn a ways from here," the elder man explained and pointed to a lavish three storied saloon and hotel.

Nothing but sweet piano music skip-hopping it's notes and dollars poured out of there with it's long picture windows allowing view of silk and rosewood furniture, chandeliers hanging bright and grand cast an ethereal glow about the vacationing folk inside, flute glasses carelessly poured wine as gold bracelets stirred deeply the sleeping greed, the secret beast within every outlaw fed and fattened like hogs.

"Pearls before swine," he licked his lips and started toward the lights, he said, "Sounds grandiose…I'm sure pretty pennies have to roll somewhere."

Dan stirred, his sleep dreamless as he heard a slow beating of hooves, possibly three and a musical jangle just behind a surface he was propped on. Ever so slowly did the foreman's body come back to life, limb from limb he felt new aches, different degrees of pain, spanning from sharp and absolute to dull-throbbing and hot. A stickiness between his ribs and right arm brought him to new heights of alarm, they were most Definitely his due to the burning slap he received after scraping his ribs together in the slightest movement. He shuddered and groaned, the discomfort too much to bear; a pounding, searing, unforgiving headache squeezed around his head, warmth stirred from all sides the more he squirmed, he breathed the dry air, feeling it scorch the outer rims of his nose and throat as he inhaled, and sharply leave a soothing warmth as he exhaled. A slit of light leaked through a gray thickness above his head, he nudged through, and first came in contact with a scruffy chin, he peeled whatever it was covering him and stared wide-eyed in awe, not because he was seated in the outlaw's lap on their horse.

They were riding on bare white sand, save for a few dancing dead saguaros and cacti in the distance, they came to a tall juniper tree, Dan mumbled, "…about to leak…"

Ben halted the horses and slid off before helping the foreman down. He shuffled through the thigh high sagebrush, and batted a hand away as it rest just under his arm when he tripped, he snarled weakly, "-let…go…!"

The outlaw picked up the dropped blanket wrapping the injured man's body from the crooked tracks in the dry cracked sand, he watched as the limping man's bandages unwound and fell, coagulated strings of blood and pus connecting open wounds to fallen wrappings. He bit his knuckles with a smile as he could imagine the pain wracking from Dan's body, muscles tensing, bones aching, skin gaping as if just taken a lashing from a knife blade-tipped bullwhip. The foreman's body threw itself on the towering barren heartwood, the scrubby outer skin prickling into his neck and chin, he leaned purposely on his bandaged right shoulder as his left worked numbly to undo his belt. Throwing the silver buckle and punched leather tongue aside, he spread his legs and unbuttoned the fixings on his hips, just as he burst, he pulled his member out and sighed against the white wood.

Opening his eyes, he stared past the ashy bole to the many rocky white hills that spread for miles aside from the chalky sand, after that lay gray mountains dotted with green, he leaned his head against the tree before meeting face to face with a tiny rock lizard, he rasped, "…the hell you lookin at…"

Ben in turn, gazed at the pissing man, back full of flexing and cringing muscle, skin layering over several present cords of bone and veins, all that he saw from Dan's wide shoulders vexed, twisted, compacted and connected to hips the exact opposite of a woman's curves: firm flesh, prominent bone work of jutting hipbones which led to a pair of full, blatant, overt sinew- also known as a man's ass. He licked his lips, a drop of dusty sweat winding down the foreman's naturally etched shoulders, then caught in the prominent funnel between his ribs and spine, slid under the damp band of his trousers. The freed criminal heard the hoarse groans mixed with the continuous splash between a tree and boots, he shifted from one to the other foot as Dan's whole body shook in tremors when the flow tapered off then stopped.

He took his place beside the wounded man and attempted to help his suspenders back on, but was instead awarded a hiss, "-don't…don't touch me…!"

"Dan, you and I rivaling like this' gotta stop. Its unhealthy for two men to be affecting like this all the time, because, who knows…" Ben inquired, turning his back, he allowed the smirk to seep into his voice as Dan tripped and flopped right into his open arms when he whipped back around, "…you might fall in love with me."

"The day that happens is the day I'm stubborn, dirt poor and living in shit," the foreman grumbled lowly, pushing himself off the body and dusting his knees.

"I'll take note of that," the outlaw nodded, he strode on ahead and glanced over his shoulder as the other man kicked, swore, and grunted all the while staggering through the dead weed and brush.

Dan threw himself onto a horse, he squinted right to see a pack mule made out of an impressively mighty-looking Clydesdale tossing about it's white mane. He took a gasping breath and peeked out from his hanging eyebrows to the left, Ben's trusty black horse's rump pointed crudely at him. He lifted barely a shin's length of his right foot off the ground, freezing mid-way from the stirrup as a sharp kick to his ribs struck with pain, he shut his eyes and ground his sweating forehead into his empty saddle. The desert closed in and fanned out with the heat of his throbbing, distorting infliction, pounding around the gaping wound in his ribcage. One more time and he groaned, four clinking steps came behind him.

"Need a lift, stubby?" Ben reached down from atop the black horse, grabbed the man's belt and easily thrust the body upright unto the saddle.

He circled around to Dan's left, and bent slightly to slide the prosthetic leg into the stirrup. He rode to the pack steed and rifled through several packs, a moment or two pained gasps later, he come back casting a soft leather duster about the naked shoulders, and taking a cloth to cushion between the puncture and the leather. He unfurled the familiar worn hat from behind his horse's saddlebag, and smacked the dust out while slapping some shape back into the soft crown.

Ben waited for the shaky arms to find their way into the sleeves before he buttoned the first two clasps when the foreman wheezed, "…for the last time, Wade…I'm not stubborn…"

"How could I forget?" he laughed to himself, plopping the familiar hat on the head and putting the reins in Dan's quivering left hand as the left stayed under the coat to clasp against the drying blood. He said, riding the so-called trail where the sun was unreliably centered directly above the land, "You're as modestly passive as a meek seasoned nun who is subject to defiling all that is sacred to the church. A true saint. Bravo."

For the first time throughout the whole ride, Dan had nothing to say. In all his years as a self declared supine man, he had much time and too much space alone with Ben Wade to think about his whole life: beginning from his childhood. His father a humble man with little property on a small farm and three children, Dan being the eldest. After his mother had twins, his parents gave him up to a yankee butcher's wife further eastward for the apprenticeship and income, which he then sent through post to his family at their beck. Work was hard for the couple he was employed to as the years did justice on making him both independent and wise to plentiful farm chores and to it's many businesses. On reaching his twentieth birthday, the yankee butcher told him to sign up for the North, the next day he was enlisted. Spending his twenty-first year in a training camp did little to him in saying 'no', so did events play out as out of note as could be, he met a bonnie green-eyed preacher's daughter at a farewell dinner formal held for the departing soldiers. She was starry-eyed with his image, his uniform, his work hardened hands and the easily read emotions when his expressive style betrayed the malformed words of a partially educated working hand. He met her father that same night, the elder man readily approved and said, 'why don't you take matrimonial vows with my daughter, in the name of our Lord.' Dan accepted, now betrothed and a fiancée, she asked that they have a little girl named Willa May Evans. They made good on that baby girl before he was due to report to his first assigned base, she waved goodbye like all the other soldier's wives crowded before their marching path, completely hopeful and excited for her soon-to-be husband's return. Thoughts of the preacher's daughter kept him detached and avid to come home alive to wed his pregnant fiancée, he could imagine her waiting patently with his letters in hand or kept between the pages of her bible as she prayed. It took him two years alone to fall in love with the sweet girl expecting him back home, he felt the implicit loneliness any mortal man would during the war, which was how he learned the means some men took to satisfy themselves. Many called him innocent, almost virginal, yes. Most likened him a handsome stoic coquette, not that he intentionally lured or knowingly enticed the unfortunately lovesick men. But they all agreed on him being stubborn in fully opening his eyes to all spectrums of desperate pleasure, he resisted with all his being on several occasional advances. Word reached him of the preacher's death as soon as he was given an honorable discharge from the infantry, he came back to a girl still in mourning with the loss of her father. The light in her eyes gone when his heart now filled with adoration beat upon it's dead partner. He knew it was best for them to part ways then and there while he would have enthusiastically mailed his earnings to their year-old baby boy William, but she said to him upon his too late arrival, 'daddy would have wanted it this way: take me as your wife, Daniel.' She didn't notice he limped or had half his left shin removed until two years later when they were trying for another child, she only turned her naked body away and left him to climb atop her. Jodie Anne Evans never opened her eyes when she was born, another part of Alice's soul lay with the little girl buried next to her late grandfather's grave in Abraham's Garden cemetery. Dan held on to her, he quietly mourned alongside her, he shed many tears, shared many sentiments, imagined the baby girl's future to a fault. He saw William toddling alone after their little brood of chickens a few months later, he said to his wife, his sorrow and hope almost sheer in his voice, 'should we try again? William can't grow up alone.' Alice stared him in the face longer than her rare but brief glances, they stood toe to toe longer than a heartbeat just searching each other's eyes, then she slapped him, she said, 'a decent man would never have asked his wife such a thing after suffering the loss of his child. I pity you, Daniel. I really do.' Years passed, when Alice finally sat on top of her husband's hips, she hated him too much to feel pleasure by then and only milked him of his seed before laying on her side to think whether this child would die or not. Mark Evans arrived months later, a happy little boy bringing light to Dan's life, while William took after his mother and reverted to bitter and sarcastic moods. As a father would, Dan taught his sons everything he knew, except how to shoot a gun. The ever present amazement and innocence in the tiniest of things that Mark had reminded him of when Alice was still eighteen and untouched, even when he began coughing at the tender age of four. The gradual build of mutual respect between Dan and Alice crumbled when they were forced to move south, first to Oklahoma, which wasn't suitable for their son; one state over to Texas did little in easing the coughs. The strained family settled for several green acres among Arizona's rolling hills and stony mountains. He bought cattle from a couple who were moving northward, the bronchitis symptoms eased during the day, but returned with a vengeance in the cooling desert hours. Slowly, husband and wife regarded one another as the seasons changed, hardships seeming to come to an end. Afterwards, the drought lasting years made a believer out of Dan, he prayed as much as he could without his family calling him a lunatic, a nutcase absorbed in delusion and unable to let go of the past as easily as others would have. And Ben Wade came along…

The cattle rancher blinked, he shifted a little on the sweat-dampened saddle as they came to a bare gray scrubland, save for a few patches of starved yellow grass and wind blown jutting stones. A breeze picked up and tossed a few tumbleweeds across their path, the horses easily crunched through the trail led by Ben. He watched the form atop the black steed stare straight ahead and slap an occasional fly buzzing, and all soon came to a halt.

He watched as the outlaw dismounted and went to the packhorse just behind his jumpy buckskin, he started in realization, his voice coming out in a croak, "…wait…we're camping Here…?"

"You can sleep saddled if you want," the other man said, fetching a small ax and a flint stone fire starter, "Doing so just might catch you the sickness, therefore, a reason for me to bury you early."

"…sure you would, you degenerate bastard…" Dan sleepily shook his head and slid off the horse, fixed both horse's bridals to a dried tree, untied the requested supplies from his saddle's seat and limped to a nearby rock which sat half covered in dead weeds and shone white in the moonlight.

He leaned with his left elbow on the rock, feeling the tension snap hard in his stiffened limbs and eased himself down until he had his back to the stone. He pulled out his water canteen and a cloth, quick fingers worked the currently wet rag into his right half, he gritted his teeth and knocked his head back against he rock, hoping to add or ease the dull pain with another thud of his skull to stone. It shut his mouth a while before he pulled his fingers out from beneath the duster with a loud, wet squish, the moonlight turned his blood purple and the dropping stiff clots black, clear rotting bodily discharge ran down his wrists first before giving off a stench closest to death's warning salutation. His wounds smelled of rotting meat, fermented pus and hurt like hell even more when the wound smacked it's casket-hungry lips. His shoulders fought the leather covering his upper body until it pooled about his hips, he rifled through the pack with his left hand and shakily withdrew a quarter bottle of whiskey. Glass sloshing alcohol in hand, he turned his head away and poured a steady stream into the hole, his broken groan sputtered into chipped gasps as he tilted the bottle upright, some sloshed over and pooled into his navel as the rest twisted like a hot spoon in his ribcage.

A boot tip poking his left made him stare up at the shadow, he huffed, a little breathless and bleary eyed from all the swearing, gasping and teeth-gritting his mouth did, "…afraid of the dark, jailbird…?"

"On the contrary, canary: quit torturing yourself…" Ben mumbled around a cigarette, his eyes followed the moon glaring trail made by the wasted whiskey, he stepped over the foreman's knees to keep from dropping down and lapping at the sinuous valleys, "…I haven't gotten the fire started yet."

Dan watched the sure fingers put the wood down on the clearing, the flashing of the hand ax head split the logs into kindling in a matter of breaths. The flint dashed white across the outlaw's concentrated face, turning typical dark gray shadows a powder red-orange and chasing highlights into the sleepy night. Blue eyes shone true even in the warm iron grey whisper of the moon across the desert, the hands worked up a spark which obscured the foreman's horizons only temporarily before the smoke gave way to flame curling about the space between the two men. The figure sat hunched, dark clothing framing the mountain of a man: wide hat brim barely allowing anything more to see than a bit of beard scruff and dusky brunette waves tumbling down the side of the outlaw's cheeks and neck.

Ben made extra sure to not let the foreman see where he was looking. Lean, nude muscle covered by slightly tanned skin jumped and shivered in pain, amber streams pooled in a deep crease in the center of a wheezing abdomen, a bit running over and seeping into dusty trousers. Arms belonging to the same torso, twined down, from a set of corded collarbones, to arms twisted and constructed from scrawny sprigs that used to serve as a means of aiming a gun. The tessellation of attractive perfection and atrocious individualism tore the outlaw apart. He didn't know which to mourn or to rejoice for, either just having seen a body worth worship or seeing scars and bullet wounds that made something untouchable more human, almost and unlikely fallible. Due time would either make scars out of the oozing sore holes or the punctures would fester, possibly causing the foreman to succumb to sickness, little made sense to a man who trusted his gun to pass judgment by either survival or divine dictum.

He turned his chin up, meeting the injured man's curious stare, he said quietly as not to interrupt the near-peaceful isolated solace, "It'll be easier to see your face this way."

Ben ground his inner lip between his teeth, watching the green eyes stray noticeably from his and weaving down, down, down, pause, then shooting back up to his amused brows. The shy demureness on Dan's face lit the dry scrubland the exact shades of his timid eyes, warm and luridly clear, like a blade of grass dipped in honey, so the outlaw thought. He breathed in the nearby scents of salty rosewater, warm saddle leather, faint peaks of dried blood and fermented corn liquids making the wounded man smell less and less like a cash-scrubbed richman, and more like a prisoner of war. A prisoner of war uncorrupted by nothing but intellectual morality, a perfect example of undamaged depravity. That strange combination suited the injured man, he thought, sitting on one knee unmoved from his side of the fire. They stared at one another, muted gray green meeting raging river blues, not a word passed amongst the two as they sat quietly, the fire cracking random embers once in a while, leaving both undisturbed but lit in pastel red and orange blush.

The other man pulled the soft leather duster up higher to his chin, he watched the gaze falter aside, fluttering to grasp at any random object around the vying blues giving chase, then close in defeat. Ben stood and pulled a half lit log out of the fire and trudged into the desert, which ended their diversion completely. The foreman let out a breath when the footfalls crunched out of earshot, he took a wheezing breath and drew his knees up until he could rest his forehead against the clothed bone caps of his legs. A deaf man could have heard his heart and discover the harsh yearning music within such a frantic sound, like a heavy silver bell trapped in a red valley cut by water, endlessly clanging, louder and demanding an audience before collapsing the ravine. He absently reached into the pocket for a bullet he had stowed away in the leather folds, he pulled out a slip of paperboard with a hole punched on an end and a string attaching it into the pocket, the face read twenty-five dollars.

The ankle-length coat wasn't his, telling that the edges dragged on the floor even when he tiptoed. He knew hours ago that the leather felt a little too…well crafted and slightly roomy to be his own. The shoulder cut too wide to belong covering his, the high collar and lapel overlapped his ears and chest noticeably by a whole palm and a half's length. The sleeves reached past his knuckles when he wore the article, also the inside had a dark printed cotton. More noticeably, the leather was black while his own was dark brown and cordovan while the one wrapped around his body was a local variety, but handsomely made nonetheless. Extraordinary craftsmanship, Dan mused as he burrowed a little more into the coat, he knew then that the duster was neither his nor meant for him. Unmistakable aromas of burned sulfur, ash and pine told a story of it's owner: guns always waiting preconditioned, and the man constantly on the run from anything other than chaos. Ben Wade in a sentence.

But Ben is a monster, he thought to himself. Hours ago, when he was saying his last goodbye, the outlaw smothered him with what most ornery wives would pass as a kiss, which farced that from a man with affections. Dan pushed his face further into the leather, his legs slipping out from in front of him then laying straight down on the shifting sand, the completely demoralizing mortification that swept through as he through more and more about the bizarrely forced kiss that did a better job pissing him off than musing about it's physical damage caused. Now he had more to remember Ben by than just the scars on his face and the collection of emotions a cathartic man felt, hatefully, unwanted, justly. Once an outlaw, always an outlaw, no matter how the terms between them were previously sweeter, he reflected, pulling a full holster out of the bag on his left. The foreman groaned as his right arm suffered a whiplash when he reached to buckle the holster to his hips, the pained groan and clench in his fists couldn't be helped, he blindly felt for the holed leather tongue and the buckle with his numb left hand. Once finding both, he slouched back, pushing the buckle through the space between the rock and his waist, then grasped under his pain-dead arm to yank the end out.

Successfully, he grabbed the fasten punched end and inched toward the buckle, passed it through the loop, and pulled until the brass pin fixed to the last hole. Too exhausted and wracked with pain to move any further, Dan pushed his hat onto his head and pulled the visor down until it touched his nose. He shifted a little so that the sharp echo of pain rang a little duller in his lower torso, the shattered lead still retaining their sting and bite long after their removal. He wondered and so how he was to come home to run the ranch, or even if he was needed for the duties as an overseer. Alice was a smart woman, of course she knew how to handle the business as well as her husband, the boys were probably unaware that he was missing and were both hard at their own schooling. He trusted enough in his employees that they would do their best even while he wasn't around to join their game of poker. So little in his amply paltry existence mattered so much, he gave a moment to the thought of telling his whole current life to Ben Wade, since there was a lifetime of sorrow to tell, all the same, a lifetime of discovery to hide. Even to himself.

Minutes passed into hours as the sun's rays spilled over the flat expanse of sand and stone, a few shadows of dead trees speckling the dry space here and there. Ben observed the sickly-looking man in the morning's weak coral rays, he understood if a gentleman couldn't last the night, so he decided to wait while the other could roust himself. If not, then he knew not to blame the buzzards who had the pleasure of tearing the dead man apart with better chance than he had. Only Dan never stirred while the outlaw was already packed and ready for another go in the saddle, he paced quietly about hours later with a mostly empty pot of coffee and scooped dirt into the dying fire with his boot tip. The gentle sizzle still gaining no reaction from the foreman, not so much a facial twitch or draw in breath. He dumped the cold coffee into the mixture of sand and dying ash, effectively putting out the sputtering flame, and raised his sights to the burning noon light shining its normally blistering heat down on the sand. Vultures and ravens battled in the skies at the prize of two men's bodies and three horses, their black and brown wings casting ominous shadows on the broken camp.

"Ooh. You'll be killing a many great deal of dreams putting a hole in everyone's favorite body part of mine…" Ben said, lowering his hand above his brow and addressing his own holstered gun pointed at his crotch, "But I welcome the overture."

"…let's kill two birds at once…" the breath behind huffed, another sun warmed barrel pressed into the back of the outlaw's head, "…wouldn't you agree…?"

"Aim here…" he said, wrapping his hand around the holstered gun, which was formerly pointed at his nether regions to rest on the left side of his chest, "…since we both know it draws your attention the most…"

"…what I want…ain't what you've got…" Dan hissed, the hollowed metal ring digging harder in both head and presumed heart.

"Naïveté? Virtue? Coherency with Alice? The interest of your boys?" the outlaw half chuckled and said offhandedly, "Being a kitschy man of the states took the bite out of your pride, visibly dulled your masculinity. A year in Yuma should sharpen that knife right back up."

"…keep dancing around the subject and maybe…" the foreman nodded, his chin rising to the shadows circling above them, "…I'll be the one to feed you to the birdies…which is it…?"

"Which is what, Dan?" he smiled as the guns nudged a warning, he sighed at the lack of humor between them and thought to himself that Dan took life too seriously, "I am everything and nothing."

"My gun on the other hand, well, wouldn't you want to know?" the freed criminal explained, another poke into his ribs forced a brief preface of his sum on the life he lead, "Anger forged 'The Hand of God'. Survival aims the barrel. Greed puts in the bullets. I just make sure no one gets hurt. And what is it that a smalltime rancher requires of my trigger finger?"

Caught off guard, Dan's grip on the pieces lessened considerably. He could almost feel his weak heartbeat between the warm wooden handles and his shaking hands. The same tangling maze his mind entered after receiving a jury summons telegraph ended all thought, the breath in his chest stopped until he could hear the swishing wings storeys above them. Nothing had to be said or explained to the audience of only them in the desert that what the foreman chased were only ghosts. He chased after human ideals which were taken from him by his parents as a boy growing up, liberties taken by his wife and children, his entire existence was based on his Weakness. But then again, he fought every man's cowardice to complete a simple task; take Ben Wade to the three-ten and ensure their name in history.

And in that very Weakness every loving father has, his faint saintliness asked one thing of the man he held at gunpoint, "…mercy…"

"Don't insult me. Pulling the trigger is all the clemency I can grant," the outlaw said, "Works wonders on all kinds of fallen lawmen, cheating scum and ordinary assholes. We both saw plenty on our way to Contention. That damn sight should've been the limit of your lifetime."

"…it's not enough…" he shook his head against the demons rising out from the words his whole being knew were true, he denied them with all his might and answered, "…it's not nearly…-enough…"

"Traveling with me, you gotta get used to it," Ben stated simply, glancing behind his shoulders to see Dan on the verge of pulling both triggers, the destroyed iron calm always plastered until now gave the outlaw the freed criminal the shivers.

He grinned to himself when the graying lips trembled out a sure rejection, "…I've got plans…that don't involve…law breakers…"

"After all's said and done after every meal with your family, you're left with this itching…" he asserted quietly, now that he looked deep and saw what warred within the former rancher, something he knew all along that only needed encouragement to fully blossom into a beautiful happening, only to all the more enhance Dan's already stunning color which only hard men knew by earmark, "…this insistent privation…"

"…for what?…" the other man huffed, the interest becoming audible.

"You tell me, Daniel Evans," Ben said, turning his head slightly to take in the sight provided, "Lying to a marked man won't get you anywhere besides guilt. More?"

"…go on…" the foreman wheezed, pained face cast down far enough that the visor shadowed all expression, he instinctively knew the temper rising and refuse of Ben's words falling.

"That no matter how good a life you lead now, even while Alice pays you more attention…" he explained, feeling the pistols slowly drop from his body as he continued, "…there's still something else aside from her and all that money you're drowning in that matters…"

Dan stood his ground, almost too afraid to ask, thinking that maybe this was the truth he was haunted by, he hesitantly wheezed, "…what…"

"…freedom…" the outlaw answered and stepped away from the lowered guns to the packed horse, "That's where I'm headed."

He stood a moment, the guns he had in hand pointed at nothing but the ever shifting dry salted sand swirling and blowing past his ankles, doing nothing but staring off into the direction where clouds loomed and blew the faint smells of warm wet rocks and little else. Ben's horse trotted past, Dan started and went to the tree with his own tied buckskin, he shot in the outlaw's direction and half wheezed a shout, "Not getting away-!"

"I'm awfully grateful of your escort on shooting flies away from me, but this is a one-man job and I prefer to keep it that way," the outlaw said, turning the horse around and riding up to the troubled man. He grabbed the arm planted on the buckskin mount's saddle horn and hauled the injured man up, slipped the left boot into the stirrup, "Up you go, stubby."

"-don't need help-!" Dan rasped, his body bent over the horse's neck and whole body burning from the unhealed wounds. He whispered, "…thank you…"

"You're dying, Dan," the outlaw said to him, the steps of the black horse circling until he could hear the sounds of the dappled draft mount being untied from his saddle, two sets of hooves, one heavy and the other slighter pounded away to an unknown direction, "Digging graves ain't my forte."

"…take chances…" he rasped before aiming, arm tracking right to left and left back to right, gradually taking note of the wind and bouncing movements of Ben, the horses and the lighting glint where it caught his eye. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

"Pray for a preacher who does," the outlaw said, halting both mount and draft, a finger searching the right shoulder and threading through a clean hole through the cotton, "Really, Dan? You're gonna ring this bell Twice?"

"…if a preacher takes pity…to ring yours'…on your funeral…" Dan gulped as he clucked his steed forward until they were near eye to eye, "…I'll ring again…"

"Sure thing, stubby," the other man spurred the two mounts into the sea of sand like an unfolded map before them; nameless, unmarked, and hot as a July bonfire.

"…not stubborn!…" he rasped, "…just resolute…"

"Same as calling an ass a steed," Ben said.

Dan rode on, head cast down from the sun and recalled what happened after Ben Wade showed up in his life, all starting with that vatic day: noontime down a dried wash. He was a good man, nearly like his father, and his sons, completely different from his own partially recalled siblings. That morning before continuing on with his daily chores, he felt a pain only a father could feel; rejection out of his own family's life, all except Mark. Mark had that innocent childlike belief in his father, that the man he called 'pa' could do anything, that he could shoot the sun out of the sky and scatter it into the pinpricks of night; making stars out of nothing but a gun, a sharp eye and dust of the sun. Dan hated to let his son down, since the boy never gave up believing in him. The morning after the barn burned down, he hated the betrayed look in Alice's eyes, especially the glare William passed over Dan, the fourteen year old only shook his head and headed out to lead their cattle out to the wash. From there when he laid eyes on the cold blues after shooting down a stupid young bandit, all memory became a series of long dead parts finally given sensation. Fear like a bolt, struck through Dan after the outlaw's stare met his, a questioning gaze from the other made his mind reel as if asking 'have we met?' through the rain of bullets and lies. Then on came an absolute atmosphere, a here-there bond, an integral reciprocal respect, a kind of unwritten friendship existing between the two. Their whole ride to Contention was like coming up after spending his whole life submerged, his first breath of true life. No cold stares, no time for self-pity, no room for mistakes, and astonishingly, not one good thing about Alice seemed to make itself visible during the infrequent quiet moments the whole posse had when not shooting or running. When Ben mentioned Alice in a nonchalant tone, he lost temper, and not many can have the pride of saying that they took the farmer's bad side. Painful shards of reality cut Dan until there was nothing left, gone were the solid faith in his wife, the hopes in seeing his sons again, the self-confidence gained through his brushes with death, all vanished. The only sure thing he was left to trust in was the very slight goodness left in Ben Wade, the one retained for a singer named Velvet, yet in her absence, was turned to Dan. He was also relieved that nothing that shouldn't have happened in the hotel room thankfully didn't happen. He shouldn't have hoped what Ben said about brides taking in the sight of the ceilings was an invitation, that was one of many things he shouldn't have wished for with or without their posse. After his death as a poor farmer, he awoke rich, loved, admired, and ironically, he felt the dull numbness as he had during the war…heartsick…

End Part I of II

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><p>Thank you, Stunning Sunset, for the review! Yay! At least One person agrees with me~! I never had a word or description that could accurately catch Charlie's soul but you did it, fellow reader: a 'spoiled brat'. Me, too - sex with Alice…eeeeEEEW! FUCK! The sexual chemistry between the two almost made me make Ben attack our hero~! *smiles* that woulda been nice, but this is My story dammit! (you are a Bad man mr. wade, flaunting your charms in front of dan.) The last chapter to this story is well underway, &amp; sorry to inconvenience everybody to add this as an addition to the first chapter, but there's so much of a story to tell~! Thanks for understanding q(^u^)p - unless you're lost, i'm replying to my own damn footnote, as read here: I bought too many westerns &amp; wrestling vids, &amp; was jacked on too much pepsi maxx. I FINALLY Watched 3:10 to Yuma after stumbling across it at a video store…yea, yea, I was sick until my guts puked out of my nose holes for days (no joke kids, chili + coke ZERO make bad chemistry with stomach acid). The first time my sister asked me what I was watching, I texted back to her: '310 to Yuma, n GODDAM does this movie have Major sexual undertones. It's got more guy-on-guy innuendo than Brokeback Mountain! Its Pronto Candy!' fyi: 'pronto'=porn ~ after combing out the 3:10 to Yuma fics, I found several delicious ones, but still can't see Charlie &amp; Ben together…does that make me weird?<p>

Reviews: I hope my job as an underappreciated wife to sex-fics ends…but it's cool if you play voyeur, too! No love lost!


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